The Story Teller

He was short and round with thinning gray hair,
a matching beard and voice that magically soothed.
From his lips Camelot and dragons were real and alive,
unto our impressionable ten year old minds.

We hung on his every spellbound word
as they softly painted such incredible stories in our brains
where goodness prevailed by noble knights.

Oh to us they became the fodder of our dreams,
the pure fire of imagination’s furnace,
which burned each night when we were alone.
How they carried us to worlds
filled with all the things we never saw,
happily they became the tales embellish with creativity
of our lunch time conversations.

Years passed and maturity brought its own reality,
yet through it all that word sorcerer’s power lingers
each time I look at a group of trees or bushes
and still recall those stories of fantasia's strokes,
quietly hoping to see a fairy or pixie hiding among them.